Music is the Mirror to Our Souls
by fireheart93
Summary: A series of short stories/character studies inspired by a variety of songs. Includes Sherlock/John friendship/slash.
1. Imperfect Tense

**Song: Imperfect Tense by Frank Turner**

**Summary: Mycroft considers his relationship with Sherlock.**

**Warnings: Mentions of drug use.**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunatly, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: This chapter began with one idea and morphed into something entirely different. This is a new style for me so please don't hesitate to give constuctive criticism. The lyrics from the song are in italics**

_Naked and retched and retching on a hotel bathroom floor, somewhere in the City  
Three days no sleeping, not eating, not feeling good anymore  
Drenched in sweat and self-pity now, it's not a pretty sight_

_What to say in my defense, I was imperfect tense_  
_Used to have such balance, but I don't know where it went_  
_So won't you be my present sense_

Mycroft had always known it would end this way. That didn't stop it hurting though. As he stood in the doorway of some faceless London flat, looking at the still form of his little brother he felt something clench around his heart, an iron fist burning cold. If he were any other man his pain would be clear to read on his face. But he was Mycroft Holmes. Maybe if he had been different this wouldn't have happened, but there was no point wasting precious space on pointless speculation.

If Mycroft had been any other man he would not be standing calmly in the doorway. He would be hysterically sobbing by his brother's side, holding him tightly, screaming at the world. But he was Mycroft Holmes. Instead he immediately ascertained that his brother was still breathing, called an ambulance and waited, leaning casually on his umbrella.

People accused him of not caring, but people are idiots. The truth was that he cared too much. He loved his brother with a fierce, possessive intensity, brilliant and destructive, burning through everything it touched. But if Mycroft's love was fire, then Sherlock's was ice; the tighter Mycroft clung onto it, the faster it melted away, until in the end Mycroft had to let him go or risk losing him entirely.

__

_Breaking, I'm shaking, it's taking a long long time  
To come down off this murderous medication  
Trying to remember, my reasons for running myself into the ground with such dedication_

_What to say in my defense, I was imperfect tense_  
_Used to have such balance, but I don't know where it went_  
_So won't you be my present sense, sense_

Sherlock lay in a hospital bed, black curls jarring against white sheets and whiter skin. He was sleeping peacefully, restless energy stilled by a combination of sedatives and exhaustion. Mycroft studied him with carefully concealed concern, face an impassive mask. A doctor appeared at his elbow and coughed slightly to get his attention. Mycroft turned to face him with questioning eyes.

"We are fairly sure that he will recover completely, however we will have to wait until he wakes up to be certain that there are no complications. The next step will be arranging his rehabilitation." Mycroft cut him off.

"Just do whatever is necessary to make my brother well again." The doctor looked into the eyes of the man in front of him and felt his blood still, frozen by the depth of feeling that he could not even begin to understand. Then the walls slammed up again, misery replaced by something darker and more dangerous, directed straight at him. Mycroft smiled almost imperceptibly as the doctor scurried away.

It was dark outside. If Mycroft was a poetic man he would compare the darkness outside to the darkness in his mind, but he had more important things to concern himself with. Sherlock had awoken briefly but not for long enough to remove all concern. In the harsh light of day it was easy to focus entirely on his brother's health, but the darkness was seductive, drawing him into the circular questions he had promised he would never ask. He would never understand why Sherlock pushed himself so relentlessly, even at the risk of destroying his brilliant mind, the only thing he held dear.

Mycroft was under no illusion as to the status of his relationship with Sherlock. He knew that when Sherlock finally awoke (and he would wake) he would not want to hear everything Mycroft wanted (needed) to tell him. So he would stay by his bedside until Sherlock woke, and when he did he would inform him of the arrangements he had made for his rehabilitation, indulge Sherlock's desire to insult him and then leave, with all the important things left unsaid.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man to let emotions get the better of him. But Sherlock was the one chink in his armor, his one weakness. And Mycroft was afraid that it was his weakness, his terrible love that had driven his brother to the brink of madness. If Mycroft was a different man he may have believed that he could give Sherlock what he needed, but he had made that mistake before. No, he would take a step back and force himself to watch as his brother flew through life with his eyes closed and his mind open, heedless of the cracks in the road. Mycroft could only pray to whatever gods were listening that Sherlock would find someone to catch him before he fell too far into the chasm that was always just ahead of him, waiting for him to take that final, fateful step into oblivion.

_Cos it's not meant to be  
I am lost at sea  
So mermaids sing to me  
Of the better times and the things that can be  
Like the diamonds in the Mediterranean sea  
Or the beatings and sleeping and times that I took  
And of washing the drink and the drugs from my blood  
And I've nothing to say in my defense  
I'm far from perfect I'm still tense  
They say that love can change you once  
Please say that love can change me once  
Come on change me_

**Authour's Note: Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing this. I will update this as and when I write chapters, depending on how inspired I am. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**


	2. Being Alive

**Song: Being Alive from the musical Company by Stephen Sondheim**

**Summary: A look at Sherlock and John's relationship.**

**Warnings: Sherlock/John strong friendship, slash if you squint**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunatly, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: Thanks to Cyberbutterfly for her lovely review of the last chapter. This is a new style for me so hopefully it works. Thanks to Eleniel, my wonderful Beta, for her support. All remaining mistakes are my own.**

_Somebody hold me too close  
Somebody hurt me too deep  
Somebody sit in my chair  
And ruin my sleep  
And make me aware of being alive_

You've always believed that you're better off alone; even as a child you'd lock yourself in your room for days on end, only coming out when you couldn't ignore your body's demands for food any longer. You've never been afraid of loneliness; silence helps you think, sharpens your focus, holds no distractions. You've tried living with other people before but they never stayed for long. If your violin playing didn't disturb them then your experiments scared them off. But you don't need anybody else. Other people crowd you, try to make you care about all their stupid little problems and complain when you don't. Other people leave you, hurt you, break you. You're better off alone.

_Somebody need me too much  
Somebody know me too well  
Somebody pull me up short  
And put me through hell  
And give me support for being alive_

An almighty crash from the living room sent John hurtling downstairs, expecting to find an armed robber attacking his flat mate. Instead he saw Sherlock sprawled on the floor, apparently uninjured. John rushed to his side, his eyes assessing his flat mate.

"Are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm fine John."

"So you're on the floor as part of an experiment?" John asked skeptically. "When was the last time you slept?"

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"In that case, Monday."

"Monday!"

"Sleep is boring." John took a deep breath, trying to reign in his temper.

"Sleep may be boring but it is unfortunately necessary. Come on, bed."

"Sofa!"

"Ok, sofa," John knew to pick his battles. He helped Sherlock to his feet and walked him over to the sofa, pushed him down onto it and covered him with a blanket.

"You stay there and don't move. I'm gonna go and make some food, you need to eat." Sherlock watched John go into the kitchen. He briefly considered getting up but decided against it. He settled back into the sofa and shut his eyes, listening to the sounds of John cooking. It was nice to know that someone else was there. Normally he just kept going and going, pushing himself until he burnt out. But it was different with John, John knew exactly when to leave him alone but, more importantly, he knew when to step in, to force Sherlock to take care of himself. He knew how to save Sherlock from himself, he could see when Sherlock crossed the line, and he knew how to stop him.

_Make me alive, make me confused  
Mock me with praise, let me be used  
Vary my days, but alone is alone, not alive!_

It was stubbornness that got you into this position. After a long day chasing around London after a drug ring all you wanted to do was collapse onto your sofa, but John got there first. John was lying on your sofa, but rather than sulk about it (because you never sulk) you used your brilliant logic to come up with a foolproof plan to get John to move. You forced your way onto the sofa, wedging yourself between John's body and the back, your legs tangled with his. You believed that the intimacy of the position would jar with John's deep-seated belief in his heterosexuality, forcing him to move to his own chair, and off your sofa. However, you had forgotten to consider that, when pushed, John can be as just stubborn as you and that he long ago resigned himself to the fact that you have no sense of personal space. And so now you are lying on the very small sofa with your (surprisingly comfortable) flat mate, watching a Bond movie. At some point John put his arm around you and he is stroking your shoulder gently, unconsciously. From your position on his chest you can hear every heartbeat, feel every steady breath. It's intimate, comfortable and right. You wonder how John has infiltrated your life (your heart?) so completely, how he forced you to stop, to feel, to _care_. You feel confused and calm and strangely, blissfully happy, like you've been missing something your entire life and you've finally realized what it was. John's warmth surrounds you but it's not trapping you; it's keeping you safe and you can't bear to think what might happen if it went away. You know one thing for certain; John makes you better, more vibrant, more alive. It may have been stubbornness that brought you to this point, but it is love that keeps you here, wrapped in John's arms, as the credits roll.

_Somebody crowd me with love  
Somebody force me to care  
Somebody make me come through  
I'll always be there  
As frightened as you to help us survive,  
Being alive, being alive, being alive_

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it or have any constructive criticism please review, I want to try and improve my style. I am open to any suggestions so don't hesitate to send me ideas. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**


	3. Precious

**Song: Precious by Martyn Joseph**

**Summary: Mrs Holmes comforts her younger son.**

**Warnings: None.**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunatly, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: This is one of my favourite songs so I hope I've done it justice. Thanks to everyone who sent me a review or added me to story alert. **

_They'll try to take you and steal your heart  
They'll try to make you something you aren't  
You can be swept like sand on a beach, not out of reach  
Don't let them drag you down, hold on  
__  
Know that yo__u're precious  
Know that you're precious  
Know that you're precious  
So precious_

Mrs. Rosaline Holmes flinched as she heard the shouting, her husband's booming tones contrasting sharply with her younger son's higher voice. She heard something (probably valuable) smash, a door was opened violently, feet pounded on the stairs and another door slammed shut. Rosaline Holmes wondered how many pieces she would have to pick up this time as she left her dressing room and walked down the corridor to her son's room. She entered quietly. Sherlock was sitting curled up on the window seat, looking much younger than his seventeen years. She walked over to him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" she asked gently. He remained sullenly silent. "Sherlock I heard the shouting. Tell me what it was about." Her voice was gentle but the order was clear. Sherlock obeyed.

"Father said I was worthless," he said it quietly, almost inaudibly. Rosaline sighed internally; this was an argument they had had before and would doubtless have again. Mr. Holmes aim for his sons was for them to follow his not inconsiderable footsteps into government. Mycroft was his golden boy, but Sherlock resisted all attempts to control or mould him into anything but himself. Rosaline felt a sudden hatred for her husband who refused to see the brilliance of her fragile younger son. She reached out and pulled Sherlock to her possessively, trying to replace the memory of his father's anger with her fierce love.

"My Sherlock. My baby," she murmured. "You are not worthless. Do not let anyone, especially your father, tell you otherwise."

"But what if I am?" his voice lacked all of his usual arrogance, betraying his vulnerability. Rosaline sat in front of him, made him look at her.

"You mustn't say that. People can only make you feel worthless if you let them. You are so special Sherlock; I know you know that, so have faith in yourself. You will be a great man one day, I know it. You will make me proud." The sun was setting outside, giving the room a timeless feeling. Rosaline Holmes held her fragile, beautiful son tight, protecting him with her love, for the last time.

_And in our mother land is the fountain dry?  
Empty smiles that speak and long for days gone by  
I feel the night is closing in, if you feel it too  
Let me wrap my arms safe close around you_

_Know that you're precious  
Know that you're precious  
Know that you're precious  
So precious  
_

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you enjoyed it or have any comments. Until we meet again, Fireheart93.**


	4. Brother

** Song: Brother by Jane Taylor**

**Summary: Harry and Mycroft consider the difficulties of their little brothers.**

**Warnings: Sherlock/John implied romance.**

**Spoilers: Implied for The Great Game.**

**Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing.**

**Author's Notes: Another of my favourite songs. I hope you enjoy reading it. Thanks to my wonderful sister for reading this through for me an thanks to all those who have reviewed or added this story to their allert. **

_All across the water, oh little brother, what did you find?  
And did it all make sense, outside of the room you left behind?  
Was it easier on you without me in your life?  
I didn't realise I was so guilty of letting you down_

_Time all this time, and I still don't know what I did  
Time all this time, and I still don't know why_

Harriet Watson watched her brother's slow, steady breathing. He was unnaturally pale against the hospital sheets. When the doctors said he was out of danger Harry had almost laughed; he would never be out of danger. He had been thrown out of one war only to fall into another, more personal one. Against his brother's orders, Sherlock had told Harry everything, either out of sympathy (for her) or out of spite (for his brother). They had spent a night together in the hospital, waiting for news. She couldn't hate him. She wanted to, for putting her baby brother in danger, but she couldn't. Not after seeing how broken he was behind his walls. One broken soul immediately recognises another; there's something in the eyes. Sherlock's eyes were sharp but cold and empty. Except when he looked at John.

She wished she had been there for John, but she knew it wouldn't have made any difference. He was addicted to this life of risk and war, as much a she was to the bottle. The difference between the two of them was that her addiction had cost her her love; John's might just win him his. If it didn't kill him first.

_Staring at your picture, you're getting older; I didn't know  
She said your name out loud. I swallowed it down into the hole  
You were once forever, you were my laughter; my home  
Does none of this mean nothing to you any more?_

Mycroft watched Sherlock pace restlessly around 221B Baker Street. He tried to match this driven man with the child he remembered, but it was almost impossible. Sherlock had been a curious child but unfocused. If he couldn't find the answer to one problem then he just moved onto the next. That had changed when he heard about the death of Carl Powers; he had become more aware of the consequences of failure, more desperate to find the truth, less willing to move on. They had been closer then, Sherlock asking Mycroft everything, Mycroft reading late into the night so that he could have the answers. Things were different now. Sherlock depended on no one. Well maybe that was not true anymore. Mycroft watched as John walked over to Sherlock, forced him to stop pacing and pulled him into his embrace. Mycroft felt a stab of jealousy that John could comfort his little brother when Sherlock pushed everyone else away. He wished things could be different, that they could return to the summer of their childhood, before betrayal and circumstance had torn them apart.

_But it seems, all in all, I guess I can't make this better  
Little boy, are you still hiding under your hood darling?  
Through it all I guess I'm still chasing shadows  
Little boy I thought you knew  
I was a child too_

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading, please take time to review to help me make my writing better. Until we meet again, Fireheart93.**


	5. Till There Was You

**Song: Till There Was You, from the musical The Music Man by Mereith Wilson**

**Summary: John has a confession to make.**

**Warnings: Slash kissing**

******Spoilers: None**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunatly, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: Complete fluff. Inspired by the song and the end of the 1999 film Mansfield Park. Please read and review.**

_There were bells on the hill, _

_But I never heard them ringing,_

_No I never heard them at all,_

_Till there was you._

They were sitting in the kitchen on a quiet Sunday morning, soft sunlight shining through the window. John had just finished his breakfast and was drinking a cup of tea as Sherlock flicked through the paper, the perfect image of comfortable domesticity. John got up to put his cup in the sink, took a deep breath and said,

"Sherlock, I think I love you." Sherlock stilled.

"Of course," he said.

"Of course?" John was surprised.

"Yes John. I am your friend, you are mine. Of course you love me." John smiled gently.

"No Sherlock, I don't mean like that. I mean…you make me feel things I've never felt before. You're irritating and frustrating and so brilliant it hurts. For the first time in my life I feel content, and that's all because of you. I've never felt so completely happy before and I never want it to end. And I know I'm babbling now, but the only words I really need to say are I love you. I love you. I just thought you should know." The kitchen was silent now John had stopped talking. John turned back to the sink. "Look, I'm sorry, I've made things awkward. Just forget I said anything." John went to leave but stopped when Sherlock stood up and spoke.

"I am glad you told me, because now there is no reason for me not to tell you that I love you too." Sherlock moved closer to John, forcing him to back up until he hit the wall, invading his personal space decisively. His voice dropped, becoming a deep rumble that John could feel reverberate through him.

"You should now I am married to my work." Sherlock almost growled, slowly leaning towards John.

"Maybe it's time you had an affair." John took control, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss. It wasn't perfect, but it was beautiful. Sherlock moved his head, revelling in the softness of John's lips, the pleasure jolting through him. There was passion in the kiss, but it was more than desire more than lust. It was pure and full of the promise of something more. Sherlock pulled back and looked down at John and, for the first time in his life, he saw love in the eyes looking back at him.

_There was love all around,_

_But I never heard it singing._

_No I never heard it at all,_

_Till there was you._

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**


	6. Mother Courage

**Song: Mother Courage by Duke Special**

**Summary: The Confrontation on the Falls**

**Warnings: Character Death**

******Spoilers: Maybe slight for the Great Game**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: I'm really quite proud of this one. I saw this song performed live in the play Mother Courage and Her Children, so hopefully I've managed to capture some of the atmosphere. **

_Sometimes there's luck an always worry._

_The war goes on, and perseveres!_

_For war is never in a hurry,_

_And it can last a thousand years._

_The war will feed you steel and fire_

_If you sign up for bloody deeds_

_It's only blood that war requires_

_So come and feed it what it needs._

Sherlock stood on the top of the Reichenbach Falls, coat billowing, spray dampening his hair. He stood looking out over the landscape, gun held loosely in his right hand, waiting. His eyes were empty, his heart more so, even his mind was clear of all clutter. He was focused, sure of his path, calm. He heard a step behind him but didn't turn.

"So here we are at the end of the road. Did you enjoy our little game?" Sherlock said nothing. "Oh, don't tell me you're still cross about your little pet. I didn't mean to break it. I never was any good with animals." Sherlock gritted his teeth but maintained his silence. "Come on, talk to me. It's no fun if you don't talk." Silence. "I did warn you. I said I would burn the heart out of you, I just didn't think I could burn the rest of you so easily." Sherlock turned and raised the gun. "Oh, this just got interesting. Or it would be if you weren't so hopelessly predictable." Sherlock moved, forcing his tormentor to back up towards the falls. "Come on Sherlock, we both know you will never pull that trigger, why bother pretending otherwise?" Sherlock remained silent, tension crept into the atmosphere. "You could never kill me, you need me too much. You are a hopeless junkie, addicted to the game I set for you, desperate for stimulation." Sherlock remained steady, unblinking despite the fear seeping into his enemy's voice. "No one understands you like I do. Not your brother, not your housekeeper, not even your pet, Doctor…" a shot rang out, cutting him off before he could say the name of the man he destroyed to get to Sherlock. There was shock in the eyes of the thing that was once James Moriarty as it fell backwards over the Reichenbach Falls to the hungry rocks below. Sherlock watched him fall.

"That was for you, John." Sherlock turned his back on the falls and walked away, tall and proud but not triumphant, not victorious. Empty.

_The world will end, and time will cease!_

_And while we live we buy and sell!_

_An in our graves we shall find peace – _

_Unless the war goes on in hell!_

**Author's Notes: Please review, even if it's just to tell me how I could improve. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**_  
_


	7. Song for the Road

**Song: Song for the Road by David Ford.**

**Summary: An investigation in the snow.**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock slash kissing.**

******Spoilers: None**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: Antoher of my favourite songs. My first attempt at writing a deduction so hopefully it's not too far fetched. Inspired by the snow that has covered the UK in this last week. **

_Now I don't lightly use words like forever  
But I will love you 'til the end of today  
And in the morning when I remember everything that you are  
Well I know I'll fall for you over again  
_

The body was found in the park, in the early hours of the morning. It was bitterly cold. Frost glittered on every surface and the winter sun shone weakly through the mist. The world was silent, asleep. John watched as Sherlock moved around the body, seeing, observing, deducing. His breath hung in the air, his coat swirled around him, his eyes shone. John had never seen anything so beautiful. Lestrade came over to them,

"What have you got?" he asked. Sherlock turned to him.

"He was strangled by the husband of the woman he's having an affair with."

"Explain," Lestrade stopped Sherlock with ease born of long practice before he could leave. As Sherlock launched into his explanation John moved to examine the body. He looked at the bruises on the neck, noting the position of each one.

"Sherlock," he called. Sherlock immediately broke off and came over to him, much to Lestrade's irritation. "Look," John pointed to the bruises, "Those bruises are on all the weak points in the neck. Whoever strangled him knew exactly where to press. If I were to guess I'd say it was a doctor who killed him." He met Sherlock's eyes and saw his true smile.

"You are brilliant," Sherlock said, pulled John to him and kissed him thoroughly. John melted into the kiss, the warmth of Sherlock's mouth pushing the cold out of his bones. He shivered as Sherlock's gloved hands caressed his face, while he threaded his hands through Sherlock's ebony curls. The kiss ended but Sherlock did not move away, instead resting his forehead on John's, breath ghosting over his face. Lestrade coughed behind them,

"When you're quite finished, would you care to explain?" Sherlock kissed John briefly once more before standing to tell Lestrade to look for the victim's doctor and John watched him. Sherlock was in his element, all brilliant eyes and ethereal beauty. He caught John's eyes and grinned, so caught up in the case that he did not seem to notice the cold. John shivered as he thrust his hands into his pockets but grinned back. His life may be full of danger and death, but John would not change it for anything.

_Now I know someday this all will be over  
And it's hard to say what most will I miss  
Just give me one way to spend my last moments alive  
I choose this, I choose this, yeah I choose…this_

**Author's note: Thank you for reading. Please review, I love to hear what people think of my writing. Until we meet again, Fireheart93.**


	8. I Missed It

**Song: I Missed It by Tom Mcrae**

**Summary: To save a life, sometimes you have to break a heart.**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock implied slash**

******Spoilers: The Great Game**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: This is almost embaressingly short. However, I have a longer one in the works for Christmas, hopefully I'll finish it in time :D. **

_You turned and ran,_

_And I can still see you running,_

_If I close my eyes._

_And on your lips, _

_And in your kiss well,_

_I should have recognised the taste of goodbye._

_But I missed it, I missed it,_

_If only I'd looked into your eyes._

John sat alone, the silence weighing down on him, forcing his head into his hands. If he strained his ears he could almost hear the ghostly tones of a violin drifting through the dark. The sun had set, the night was clear, a few lonely stars shone through the clouded London sky. It was too quiet and yet at the same time the noises of life outside were deafening. All those people going about their ordinary lives, did none of them realise that the world had stopped turning? Time had halted and constricted, trapping John in the moment the door had slammed, locking out his world. He kept running that moment running over and over in his mind, torturing himself with all the things he should have done, regret an icy claw around his heart. He pulled out his phone, typed in a text and pressed send.

'_Please come home.'_

Sherlock stood outside 221B, watching. He wanted nothing more than to return to John, forget all his plans. But that would be putting John's life in danger. As long as John stayed with Sherlock he would be a target for Moriarty. John was Sherlock's Achilles' heel, if Moriarty hit him, Sherlock would be destroyed. Sherlock could not allow that to happen. He had planned carefully, provoking an argument for the benefit of Moriarty's surveillance before storming out, with no intention of returning. His phone chimed in his pocket. He took it out and read the text, the heart he had so recently found and wished he could lose again tearing a little more in his chest. He put his phone in his pocket, huddled deeper into his coat and walked away, leaving his heart behind him in the silence.

_And the harder the ships that we sail well,_

_They get easier babe,_

_As the memories fail._

_And the seas will rise and cover the land,_

_Through the waters of time,_

_I'll reach for your hand._

_But I missed it, I missed it,_

_I guessed these ships were never destined to land,_

_I missed it, I missed it,_

_But I'm keeping you close, as close as I can._

**Author's Notes: Thanks again for reading. Please take the time to review, I would love to hear what you think. Merry Christmas, Fireheart93**


	9. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Song: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas**

**Summary: Pure Sherlock/John Christmas fluff.**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock slash**

******Spoilers: None**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: This is so fluffy that reading it might give you diabetes, but hey it's Christmas. Dedicated to Cyberbutterfly, in thanks for all the wonderful reviews. Hope you enjoy :D **

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Let you heart be light_

_From now on our troubles will be out of sight_

John trudged through the snow, laden down with shopping. He had had a long day at the surgery, full of people with colds, and all he wanted to do was go home and get warm. But of course Sherlock had texted him asking (demanding) him to buy items as diverse as milk (expected), hydrochloric acid (not as unusual as you might hope) and pregnancy tests (he didn't even want to know). And John, idiot that he was, had gone to fetch them; he didn't think he could handle a sulk of epic proportions on Christmas Eve. He sighed heavily; he had almost forgotten it was Christmas. Sherlock had shown no inclination to celebrate the holiday and had 'experimented on' (destroyed) every decoration John had put up. John had submitted, knowing argument was pointless, but the atmosphere in 221b had been strained ever since and the lack of creativity among London's criminal classes hadn't improved the situation. He sighed again, huddling deeper into his coat, wishing he had some gloves, his fingers numbed by cold and pain. As he fumbled for his keys he remembered the Christmases of his childhood; the excitement of decorating the tree, leaving mince pies out for Father Christmas, lying in bed unable to sleep and getting up on Christmas morning to open his presents and eat the fantastic feast his father prepared. He climbed the seventeen steps up to the flat, opened the door and stopped in shock.

It was as if he had opened the door and walked back into his childhood. The room was lit by the flickering firelight and the gentle twinkle of the fairy lights on the Christmas tree in the corner. He put the bags down and walked over to it, gently stroking the deep green branches. He inhaled deeply, savouring the smell of the real tree and the cinnamon sticks.

"Do you like it?" John turned sharply, staring at Sherlock standing on the other side of the room.

"I…I…I thought you didn't like Christmas?"

"Ordinarily no, but I have deduced that you are very fond of Christmas, that it makes you happy. And I have discovered that, despite my best efforts, I feel the insane urge to ensure you are happy for the rest of your life." John stared at him, open mouthed with shock as Sherlock moved closer, invading his personal space.

"You really should be more observant, my dear John," Sherlock almost growled, his voice washing over John like melted chocolate, "have you not noticed what you're standing under?" John looked up and caught a brief glimpse of glossy green mistletoe before Sherlock captured his lips in a beautiful kiss.

Some time later they sat curled together in front of the tree, John watching the fire, Sherlock studying John. He would never get bored of watching the emotions dance across John's face, like clouds across an azure sky. Sherlock had spent so long constructing each and every layer of his elaborate mask that it was intoxicating to meet a man like John, who could be so open without fearing that it would be used against him. Sherlock raised a hand, ghosting his fingertips across John's laughter lines as he pressed loving kisses to his hairline. He felt John's breath drift across his collar bone as he sighed in contentment.

"How long have you known?" John asked. Sherlock could feel his lips move against his neck, distracting him from his thoughts.

"Known what?"

"That I would be open to your advances," John replied, smiling.

"When you came right across London, just to bring me milk, even though we were in the middle of a flaming row. People only do things like that for people they love," he felt John's shoulders shake as he tried to hide his giggles. "What?"

"Nothing," John stopped trying to conceal his amusement, Sherlock joining him in his chuckles. "It's just so typical for us. We finally got together because I bought you milk, how romantic." Sherlock grinned.

"Well, me dear John, if it's romance you want then ask the other question."

"What other question?"

"The other question you wanted to ask me."

"How do you know…" John stopped as Sherlock raised his eyebrow, "right, stupid question. Of course you know, you're you." Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat. John took a deep breath and asked,

"How long have you wanted to make your advances?"

"From the moment we stood together, laughing in the hallway, having chased a cab through London, on our very first case together. In that moment I wanted to kiss you so badly but I didn't, because I didn't understand what I was feeling and that scared me more than anything else. And then you killed a man to save me and I knew that, no matter what I did or didn't feel, I could trust you." There was a moment of silence, broken only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth.

"That's when I knew too," John said quietly. "I knew that I would follow you to the gates of hell if necessary, because you make me better, in so many ways." Sherlock met his eyes.

"So, if I had kissed you in the hallway…?"

"I would have kissed you back in a heartbeat." John said sincerely. Sherlock smiled,

"I can't believe we wasted all this time, dancing around one another." John moved to face him.

"Well, let's not waste any more."

They lay curled together in Sherlock's bed, blissful in the aftermath. John was surprised to find that Sherlock had allowed the decorations to extend into his room; there was a smaller tree in the corner, decorated in elegant silver and blue, and white fairy lights shone gently on top of the window. John's head was resting on Sherlock's chest, legs tangled together under the thick duvet, Sherlock gently stroking the scar on John's shoulder. John rested his hand over Sherlock's heart, feeling its steady beat pushing blood around his lover's body, feeding his brilliant brain. He shifted gently and smiled as Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead. His eyes flickered over to the (somewhat incongruous) antique carriage clock on Sherlock's bedside table.

"Look, it's half one on the 25th December," he said, raising himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John. Oh!" Sherlock almost flew out of the bed, dislodging John from his comfortable position rather violently. John simply laughed at the sight of his incredibly lanky lover jumping around his room like and oversized kangaroo. He stopped laughing to admire the view as Sherlock bent over a draw, throwing socks, underwear and (bizarrely) make-up around the room, before straightening up in triumph and bounding back over to the bed like a rather large puppy.

"Here," he said, grinning. It was a small parcel, wrapped haphazardly in what appeared to be tinfoil. John grinned up at Sherlock with questioning eyes. "There was no wrapping paper in the house, I used my ingenuity."

"And of course," John smiled, "you couldn't have gone to the shops yourself."

"Of course not," Sherlock grinned, "are you going to open it?" John tore open the tin foil eagerly, revealing a soft blue jumper. John picked it up and stroked it admiringly.

"I made it myself," Sherlock said.

"Really?" John asked, surprised Sherlock had had the patience for something as time consuming as knitting.

"Really. It was really quite simple for someone of my capability and very therapeutic. Though I did get a bit tangled up at first." John laughed at the thought of Sherlock covered in wool, fighting with the needles. "Do you like it?" Sherlock asked, suddenly nervous.

"Of course Sherlock, I love it." John kissed Sherlock before jumping out of bed himself.

"I'll be right back," he shouted over his shoulder as he left the room. Sherlock smiled, pleased at the success of his gift. He looked up as John walked back in.

"Here," he said, passing Sherlock a neatly wrapped present. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Sherlock examined the present carefully.

"Carefully and precisely wrapped, obvious result of years in the military. Simple paper, no ribbon indicates…"

"Sherlock," John said.

"Yes John?" Sherlock asked distractedly.

"Stop studying it and just open the thing," John giggled as Sherlock ripped of the paper. Sherlock's eyes widened as he saw what it had hidden. It was a beautiful dark wooden box with SH carved on the lid in beautiful copperplate letters, with a small brass hook holding the lid closed. Sherlock gently opened the lid to reveal a lining of midnight blue satin on which rested a large magnifying glass made of bronze with a handle made of the same wood as the box. For the first time he could remember his vast vocabulary had abandoned him

"Do you like it Sherlock? I carved the letters on the top myself, I always did enjoy woodwork at school so I thought I'd try again and I think it turned out quite well and then I needed something to put in the box and I saw that magnifying glass and it just seemed perfect and I'm babbling now so I'm going to shut up." John looked down at his hands, sheepish. Sherlock replaced the magnifying glass gently and closed the lid. Then he took John's hands in his and raised his chin.

"John, thank you, this is the most thoughtful present anyone has ever given me (including the collection of severed hands Molly gave me last year) and I love it." John grinned in pleasure until Sherlock wiped the grin of his mouth with a kiss.

The rest of their Christmas Day was (oddly) traditional. They had Christmas lunch with Mrs Hudson who had bought them both Christmas jumpers of questionable taste (Sherlock had refused to wear his until John threatened to send Lestrade the film of the time Sherlock got drunk in the interests of discovering exactly how much alcohol he could drink before he could no long squash the urge to dress up as a woman and dance to Lady Gaga, at which point Sherlock acquiesced with classic bad grace), and Sherlock and John gave her an amethyst necklace to go with the majority of her wardrobe. When they returned to their flat John went into hysterics at the sight of the skull (called Nigel) wearing a paper crown. They finished the day watching the Christmas television (Sherlock chuckled at John's fangirly reaction to the Doctor Who Christmas special), curled together on the sofa. Later still they turned the television off and just sat there, bathed in the fire's glow and each other's warmth.

"John," Sherlock whispered into his hair, "promise me that you'll still be here next Christmas." John turned to face Sherlock, placed his hand on his cheek and met his eyes,

"Next Christmas and every one after that for as long as I live. I promise."

_Through the years we all shall be together,_

_If the fates allow._

_Hang a shining star upon the highest bow._

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now._

**Author's Notes: Thank you for reading. Please, please review because reviews are love, and Christmas is the time for love. Wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, Fireheart93.**


	10. Love Led Us Here Part One

**Song: Love Led us Here from Muppet Treasure island**

**Summary: Two men meet in a dream and fall in love, but every dream ends.**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock slash**

******Spoilers: None**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: First part of two. I am quite pleased with this one, not least because it actually has a plot. Thanks to Eleniel for betaing this for me.**

_Was I dumb or was I blind  
Or did my heart just lose its mind  
Why'd I go and throw our perfect dream away_

_

* * *

_

Looking back I'll never know  
How I ever let you go  
But destiny could see we deserved to have another day

It was summer when they first met. A hot, hazy summer full of long days and sensual, starlit nights, where love is carried on the wind to catch the unwary by surprise. It was a summer for the young and carefree, perfect for creating memories to be treasured through the bitter winter months for decades to come. John Watson had no expectations; halfway through his medical training he felt too old to truly succumb to the allure of the season, and yet to young to completely ignore it. So when he looked out of his window one warm summer's night he opened his ears to the song of the stars and followed it out into the midsummer woods where the fairies rule and love is trapped in a flower, ready to bewitch a carless mortal's eye.

* * *

John walked aimlessly through the woods, following his feet, listening to the magic in the air, the whispers of the trees as the wind brushed through them. He sighed deeply, revelling in the freedom of isolation. The path led him on a steady incline, towards the stars which shone brightly through the treetops. He emerged from the confines of the forest into the emptiness of the clearing at the crown of the hill. But it was not as empty as it first appeared. On the crest of the hill stood an ethereal figure, pale skin shrouded in blackness. John stood transfixed, trapped by the light of the full moon and the eyes of the figure as it turned to face him. John took in the beautiful elegance of the younger man as he moved towards him. He looked to be around twenty, but his eyes belonged in a much older face. He was utterly bewitching, carved from ice, a fairy escaped from an ancient story passed down through the generations and John felt his heart shift in his chest to be closer to this luminous being. The pale eyes fixed on him, the colour of a stormy sea, the perfect Cupid's bow mouth opened and a voice as deep and rich as honey washed over John.

"_Now it is the time of night  
That the graves all gaping wide,  
Every one lets forth his sprite,  
In the church-way paths to glide:  
And we fairies, that do run  
By the triple Hecate's team,  
From the presence of the sun, _

_Following darkness like a dream." _

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the night like a ghost, trapped on the edge of memory, and echo of a dream.

* * *

John woke the next morning unable to remember how he got back to his aunt's house. The encounter in the woods had left him listless, seeing the world in muted tones as if through a dirty window. He did his best to stay out of his aunt's way, spending his days drifting through the fields and his nights walking the shadowed paths of the woods. He sought out the most enchanted places, where the light of the sun or the stars lit the leaves in a fairy glow. Days passed without a sight of the man who had separated John from the ordinary world. And so it was odd that when he did finally find him again it was in such an ordinary setting as the duckless duck pond in a secluded corner of the local park…

* * *

John recognised him immediately, it was impossible to mistake that pale skin and those fine cheekbones. He walked towards him in a daze and opened his mouth to allow the words to tumble out.

"I've seen you before," the younger man turned sharply and fixed John with his piercing gaze. "That night in the woods. I saw you. You were beautiful." John froze at the words pouring from his mouth but they were loose now, he couldn't recapture them. The other man smiled and took a step closer.

"I'm Loki," he said, voice low and seductive.

"The trickster of the Norse gods." John said. "Is that your real name?"

"Of course not, but why would I use my real name when I have a chance to chose one of my own, one that fits me as I am now, not as I was twenty years ago. So tell me, what would do you call yourself?"

"I don't know," John said, "I never thought about it before."

"I know what I would call you, if it was up to me," Loki said, moving even closer.

"What?" John asked, unable to move.

"Sirius," Loki replied, "Greek for 'scorching', the brightest star in the sky. Because that's what you are. From the moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you, capture you brightness and claim it as my own." He took one final step forward, closing the final gap between them. "If you want to stop me, do it know, because I don't think I'll be able to stop once I begin." John couldn't have stopped him if he wanted to. Loki leant down and possessed his heart with an icy kiss.

* * *

_Skin on skin, icy heat, a bright light in the blackness, sweat and pheromones thickening the air, dulling movement as if in water. Eyes alight with the magic of complete knowledge, of layers stripped away and cast aside with their clothes. Sunlight melting through the window as the dust motes dance, giving pale skin a honey glow. Moonlight slipping through the cracks lending tanned skin an icy sheen. Hands touch; fingers intertwine in the ultimate intimacy, lips meet, hard and soft in delicious juxtaposition. Tension coiling in every corner, building to sudden, explosive, euphoric release. Gentle touches, reverent, edging back from the brink, back to the safety of the darkened room, watched over by the stars._

_

* * *

_

John lay curled in Loki's arms, head on his chest, breathing in his intoxicating scent. Loki kissed his hair and whispered,

"Sirius, my brightest star, I'm so glad they led me to you."

"Who?" John asked sleepily, already drifting into a post-coital haze.

"The stars," Loki said simply. "Sleep now, my Sirius, and hear the stars sing."

* * *

They spent the summer together, drifting through the days like ships on a becalmed sea. They talked about anything and everything, except themselves. It was as if they had stepped into a dream; they were Loki and Sirius, creatures entirely separate from who they were in the outside world. But reality must make itself felt. Even the sweetest dream fades and dies with the onslaught of morning. Sirius and Loki belonged to the summer, but their time was almost over; winter was coming and Jack Frost has no time for lovers born of the sun.

* * *

The sun was setting as John approached the hill where he had first seen Loki. The sky was blood red, the light tainting the leaves as if autumn had already arrived. He saw Loki standing beneath a lone tree and walked over to join him.

"The sky is beautiful tonight," John said.

"_And ere a man hath power to say "Behold!"  
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:  
So quick bright things come to confusion._" Loki whispered, meeting John's eyes.

"I love it when you quote Shakespeare," John said, stretching up to kiss him. Loki turned his head away.

"Oh Sirius, my Sirius, my brightest star, I wish things could be different."

"What do you mean?" John asked, taking a step back.

"I mean we have to stop."

"Stop what?"

"This, this, we have to," Loki stopped, took a breath, "we have to stop this."

"Why?"

"Because our time is over," Loki said, coldly, rationally. "We had a summer together but summer's gone now. Everything has it's time and everything dies. What we had is over." John felt himself gripped by an irrational anger he couldn't explain or understand, a fire fuelled by Loki's icy words. He grabbed Loki and pushed him up against the tree, feeling the rough bark tearing his knuckles.

'Why are you doing this to me?' he almost screamed. 'Why are you torturing me like this? What do you want me to do?' Loki calmly removed himself from his grip and stepped away, fixing John with his grey eyes.

'I want you to do what's best for you. I want you to leave.' John was so shocked by this statement that he didn't hear the hint of regret in Loki's voice, didn't see him look away from him to the blood red horizon. All he could hear was Loki's relentless voice as he continued. 'You aren't safe, not with me. You're playing with fire and you're going to get burnt. So go home, my Sirius; forget about all this,' he paused, shut his eyes. 'Forget about me.' He turned and began to walk away from John. Desperate to stop him John cried out

'I can't! I love you!' Loki paused turned slightly but didn't look at him.

'I was afraid of that.' And then he was gone, and somehow John knew, he would never see Loki again.

* * *

_Now I know that life can take you by surprise,_

_And sweep you off your feet._

_Did this happen to us,_

_Or are we just dreaming?_

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading. Please review and tell me what you think. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**


	11. Love Led Us Here Part Two

**Song: Love Led us Here from Muppet Treasure island**

**Summary: The dream is dead; long live reality.**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock slash**

******Spoilers: Minor for A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: Second part. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed, it's so nice to hear what you have to say. Hope you enjoy this next part.**

_I confess it's sad but true,_

_I lost myself when I lost you,_

_But I held your memory through each lonely night._

_Let's forget what's gone before,_

_Now we both know so much more,_

_And we've been given another chance,_

_To make it work out right._

The years continued their relentless march, carrying John along with them. He finished his medical training and went straight into the army. The man who had found his heart in a dream now sought to lose it in the bitter reality of war. He immersed himself in a world that was too hot, too red, too real for memories of that summer to intrude. But some nights, when the eastern wind was warm and the stars were bright he felt Loki's ghost beside him, tasted the long forgotten taste of his skin, heard his haunting voice whisper his name. He feared and treasured those nights in equal measure, hoping each one would be the last but clinging to every moment like a miser clings to his gold. He enjoyed what he was doing; he felt that he had a purpose, a reason for living in the world. He needed to believe that there was a reason his summer dream had been shattered like glass, stolen from him in a moment. And for the most part he was content, if not happy. Then the world titled again and he fell down, down, into the abyss where madness is king.

* * *

_Pain, blood, sand in his mouth and eyes, shouting from a distance, movement, blue sky and scarlet blood twisting his mind, blackness. Awake again. Pain, white, blinding bright, smell of disinfectant and death, throat hoarse from screaming, running feet, blackness. Awake again. Mind fuzzy, morphine haze, eyes open but unseeing, mind trapped in the woods with a figure from a long lost dream, blackness once more._

_

* * *

_

John returned to England with a wounded shoulder, a psychosomatic limp and a tremble in his left hand that had nothing to do with what he had left and everything to do with where he was going. He dreaded the thought of returning home; it was too ordinary, too real for him to bear. He sat in his bedsit, holding his gun in his hands, feeling the cool metal against his palm, trying to shut out a lifetime of intolerable memories. He was back to drifting now, with nothing to keep him centred and fixed in the present. The world outside his window was bleak and grey, the bitter heart of winter so far from the scorching heat he had left behind. But still, Mother Nature called and John fulfilled a habit of a lifetime by listening. So he walked to the park, sat on a bench and waited.

His patience was rewarded.

* * *

He knew the moment he saw him. It was as if the real world and his dream world shifted and coalesced into one another, centred on the man leaning over a Petri dish. John's breath caught in his throat but he gave no outside sign. He knew how much he had changed, how much the years had stolen from him; there was no reason to believe that the man he had once known as Loki would recognise him. So he played his part to perfection, pretended he didn't know the exact tone of this man's skin, the sounds he made when he was touched, the smell of his hair. There was only one thing he did not know, that he had believed he would never know, until it was given to him freely with a wink. Loki's true name. Sherlock Homes.

* * *

Neither of them said anything about the past. Sometimes Sherlock looked at John as if he was trying to place him, but most of the time it was clear he did not recognise him. Sometimes it was physically painful for John, watching Sherlock dance around crime scenes and glide around the flat, watching his grace and remembering exactly when he had scene it all before. But he couldn't tear himself away. For the first time in so many long and lonely years he felt alive, in the moment not stuck in the past. So he stayed, and more than stayed; he followed Sherlock, helped him, killed for him. He began to believe he could be happy with that, until his world tipped again and he was thrown off once more among the stars.

* * *

John should have known better then to chase a man off the edge of a building with a knife wound in his arm. He clung on by his fingertips, legs dangling over the void, arm pulsing blood out with every beat of his heart, praying to whatever gods were listening to not let him fall. Suspended in space, he felt gravity pulling him inexorably down towards the unforgiving ground.

He slipped.

He fell.

Sherlock caught him.

Of course.

"John!" Sherlock cried. "Hold on!"

"Well what else am I going to do?" John shouted back, but already he could feel his grip slipping.

"John, grab tighter!"

"I'm trying, but I can't…my arm…I'm not strong enough."

"Oh yes you are, my Sirius, you can't give up on me now!" John reacted instinctively to the sound of the name he hadn't heard in years. He clung on tighter and was pulled up from the brink of the void, and into the arms of the man he'd loved all his life.

* * *

There was little time for talking in-between the hospital and the police interviews. Throughout it all John clung to Sherlock's hand as if he would disperse into mist if he let go. When they eventually returned home John immediately disappeared into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock called to him,

"You have questions John. If you don't object I'd rather you asked them now, so we can get this conversation over with." John stood still for a moment, considering, then flicked off the kettle and walked back into the living room. He asked the question at the front of his mind.

"Why did you leave?" Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I was afraid," he said, discomfort clear in every line of his body. "It was all too much. I felt like I was losing control of who I was and I couldn't accept that, or understand what was happening to me." John sighed,

"Basically, you were an idiot."

"I suppose you could put it that way, yes." There was a momentary silence, then John asked,

"So what now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted with rare frankness. "I don't have much experience in this area. But I am certain we were brought back together for a reason."

"We can't go back," John said. "We can never recapture what we had that summer. We're both too old; we've seen too much." He saw the despair in Sherlock's eyes. "But…we could try to create something new. Something real." He steeled himself for the confession that could save his heart or damn it forever. "I loved Loki from the moment I saw him, but he wasn't real. He was a dream. But you are real, Sherlock Holmes. You are so beautifully real and, god help me, I love you." He smiled at the shock on Sherlock's face. "I love you, more than I ever loved Loki. Because you are real." For the first time in his life Sherlock's silver tongue deserted him. He couldn't find the words he needed to keep John with him. So he acted instead. He crossed the living room in three long strides, pulled John too him and kissed him as he had kissed him once before, by a duckless duck pond during a hazy, love-soaked summer, so many years ago.

* * *

It felt like returning to a childhood home after a lifetime away. The furniture was different and the place was older, but the walls were the same, the memories still clinging to them like photographs. There was passion in the kiss, but also warmth, love. They were both older and perhaps wiser. Both had seen far too much of reality to every truly return to the dream, but maybe that was for the best. Every year has four seasons; every human has a heart that can be broken. Loki had broken Sirius' heart but Sherlock had fixed it. Loki had thrown his heart away, but John had helped him find it again. So they held hands and watched the sun set over the dramatic London skyline and remember the dream with fondness but no regrets. They had lost their dream love, but the love they had found was better. It was real.

_Love led us here,_

_Right back to where we belong._

_We followed a star and here we are,_

_Now heaven seems so near._

_Love led us here._

_So take my hand,_

_And have no fear,_

_We'll be alright,_

_Love led us here._

**Author's Notes: Thank you for reading. I rewatched A Study in Pink yesterday and couldn't stop grinning all the way through :D I think I scared my mum, but she already knew I was crazy. Please review, until we meet again, Fireheart93.**


	12. Ballad of Me and My Friends

**Song: Ballad of Me and My Friends by Frank Turner**

**Summary: John Watson is a risk taker, always has been.**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock slash, swearing in the song.**

******Spoilers: A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: This is one of my favourite songs at the moment by one of my favourite singers and I would definitely recomend having a listen if you get a chance. Thanks to all my reviewers and I hope you enjoy this. **

_None of this is going anywhere,  
Pretty soon we'll all be old,  
And no one left alive will really care  
About our glory days, when we sold our souls._

But if you're all about the destination, then take a fucking flight.  
We're going nowhere slowly, but we're seeing all the sights.

John Watson was a risk taker; always had been, probably always would be. He walked the twilight line between right and wrong, crossing over and returning with blood on his hands, both literal and metaphorical. And he was ok with that. Someone had to make those choices; someone had to walk that line, why shouldn't it be him? He had gone to war certain of who he was; sure he had the power to make the right choices. Then he had been shot and sent back to Blighty and suddenly he wasn't sure anymore. In the hateful safety and security of an anonymous London bedsit he felt lost, like a spare part in a massive machine, or an appendix. He forced himself to go outside, to walk through the park with a parody of a purposeful stride. He thought about how ridiculously easy it would be to take his gun and just…but that was the one choice he wouldn't (couldn't) make. So he continued existing as his world faded into monotones and age crept up on him, cornering him in the dead end that his life had become. A risk taker trapped in a world ruled by health and safety regulations, he never stood a chance.

* * *

John ran through the corridors of the college, searching for the man he had known for a day and had sought for a lifetime. He felt the cool press of the gun against his spine as he ran through the cold, dark rooms, so different from the war he had known. And yet the adrenaline that ran through his veins was the same, the familiar calm had descended on his mind. He twisted through the maze of rooms, following his instincts, making his choices, until he found himself facing Sherlock, separated only by air and two windows. It was an impassable divide and time was running out; John could feel the seconds melting past him. Sherlock raised the pill to his lips, and all John's options coalesced into one. He raised his gun, took a breath and pulled the trigger. If the price he had to pay for Sherlock's life was to make himself a murderer then he was willing to pay it. His choice was made, for better or worse, for now and always, if he had to chose whose life to save he would always chose Sherlock.

* * *

John couldn't believe they were doing this. He had come home from work hoping for a quiet evening, only to be met by Sherlock as he left the flat and literally dragged along beside him. He hadn't bothered to ask where they were going so when they turned up outside St Paul's Cathedral he half hoped that this wasn't their destination. Those hopes were quickly and brutally dashed when Sherlock led him to a small side door, ordering him to keep watch while he picked the lock.

"We can't break into the cathedral, Sherlock," John hissed. Sherlock paused and looked up at him,

"Why not?"

"Because it's a church!"

"I had no idea you were a religious man John," Sherlock said, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"I'm not I just…it's just not right, Sherlock."

"Right is boring," Sherlock huffed. "Anyway I'm not breaking in, I'm picking the lock. It will still be perfectly serviceable when I'm done with it." And with that he turned back to the door, clearly indicating he had no more desire for conversation. John sighed and, as he always knew he would, obeyed Sherlock's instructions and kept a look out. A few moments later he heard the click of the lock.

"Come on, John. Take a risk," Sherlock opened the door and slipped inside.

"Oh we are so going to hell for this," John sighed, but he followed him.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, making John jump; he hadn't thought he could hear him, "but just think of all the stories we'll have."

* * *

John felt the adrenaline running through his veins, remnants of their most recent chase through the dusky streets of London. He stumbled into 221B following in Sherlock's wake (as usual), giggling as they removed their jackets and clattered up the stairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson's irritated shouts. Still giggling like naughty schoolboys they crashed through the door to their flat. Sherlock stumbled over to the stairs and sat down to catch his breath; John stood at the bottom of the stairs watching him, pleased that he was so relaxed and happy at the successful conclusion of the case. He looked at Sherlock and, for the first time, he really saw him. He saw past the gargantuan intellect, the sociopath label, and saw the one man he would die for (the one man he would kill for). And suddenly he saw what he had been missing, the final observation that would solve the mystery of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. High on adrenaline and courage he surged forwards, pulled Sherlock's head towards him and kissed him fiercely. He swallowed Sherlock's shocked noise and the moan which followed close on its heels. Sherlock's mouth opened in surrender beneath his as John angled his head to deepen the kiss, deepen the intimacy to a level that neither of them had ever experienced before. Eventually the need to breath forced them apart but John stayed close to Sherlock, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air.

"So you finally worked it out." Sherlock's voice rumbled through John's consciousness, gently mocking him.

"Shut up, idiot," John smiled. "Shut up and kiss me."

John Watson had always taken risks, always walked the fine line between right and wrong, salvation and damnation. He had kissed Sherlock believing he was straight but Sherlock had very quickly shown him that labels are unimportant. All that matters is love; if there is love in the hearts then everything else is transport. There were those who mocked them, who told them their love was an abomination, a sacrilege of the natural order. But Sherlock had never believed in heaven, and John had lost his faith somewhere in the Afghani sands and they both agreed that all they knew for certain was that they were happy now. And if the price for that happiness was eternal damnation, then both John and Sherlock would pay it without a second thought.

_And we're definitely going to hell,_

_But we'll have all the best stories to tell._

_Yes I'm definitely going to hell,_

_But I'll have all the best stories to tell._

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Please review, even if it's just a couple of words. I love to hear what you think. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**


	13. I'm Alright Now

**Song: I'm Alright Now by David Ford**

**Summary: Sherlock has lost his way, will John forgive him?**

**Warnings: John/Sherlock slash.**

******Spoilers: General for the series**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: I wrote this ages ago and completely forgot about it. I think this song really suits them and i would reccommend reading all the lyrics. Hope you enjoy.**

_Another evening of sublime self-destruction  
To the tune of a thousand cigarettes  
Where every nail that's hammered into your spirit  
Was unable to sink you just yet_

_And television is just some weak anaesthetic_  
_To numb the senses till you're out like a light_  
_Like all these drugs they seem to promise you the earth_  
_and then they don't keep you warm in the night_

John walked slowly up the stairs to the flat, opening the door gently. He went over to where Sherlock sat rigidly on the sofa, staring into space and sat beside him, not touching. He didn't look at him, couldn't. John's eyes briefly scanned the coffee table but saw nothing out of the ordinary; Sherlock must have put the stuff away. They sat in silence. John wasn't angry any more no matter how much he though he should be. He couldn't bring himself to hate Sherlock, to hurt him. But Sherlock had hurt him, made him feel useless; John wasn't going to give him an easy way out. So he held his silence, waiting.

Eventually Sherlock spoke.

"I didn't take any," his voice was low, private between him and John. "I thought about it, but in the end I…couldn't."

"Why?" John asked. He knew Sherlock was speaking the truth but he needed to know, he needed to hear the words. Sherlock sighed in frustration at John's stubbornness.

"Because I knew it would hurt you. And no matter how mind-crushingly dull the rest of humanity is, I would never deliberately hurt you, I…" his voice broke, he took a breath, "I need you too much." John smiled gently and took Sherlock's hand.

Some time later they sat together on the sofa, Sherlock curled into John's side as they watched something mindless of the television. John's eyes were not on the screen, they were focussed on the man sat behind him, the man he loved and who gave him love in return. Sherlock had opened his heart to him, confessed his need, and John wanted to share something of his own, to experience the same honesty. He turned off the television and sat up straighter. Sherlock looked at him curiously, sitting up to face him but saying nothing; words were not needed. John met Sherlock's eyes briefly then flicked away, gathering himself to say what he needed to say.

"I almost became an alcoholic." He saw Sherlock studying him out of the corner of his eye but continued to stare straight ahead. "When I returned from Afghanistan my mind was so full of everything I had left behind. The alcohol let me forget. I knew what I was risking but I told myself that I could control it, that I could stop whenever I wanted," he laughed humourlessly. "That old lie. I was almost wrong."

"Why did you stop?" Sherlock asked.

"I met up with Harry," John replied. "I saw what she had become, what she had lost because of her addiction. I knew I didn't want that. So I stopped drinking." He sighed and met Sherlock's eyes for the first time since he began his confession. "I'm sorry Sherlock; I shouldn't have behaved as I did. I have no real right to take the moral high ground. Just promise me this; next time you need me just text me, and I swear I will come running."

"I give you my word," Sherlock said. Then he wrapped his arms around John, clinging to him like a drowning man clings to his lifeline, and sealed his promise with a kiss.

_So maybe I lost my sense of direction  
But I'm alright now  
Every man needs a little affection  
So I'm alright now  
Give me strength, give me something to believe in  
And I'm alright now  
Sing along when your heart's finished bleeding  
Yeah, I'm alright now_

It's like I cannot sleep for dreaming  
This is everything that could have possibly hoped it would be  
A lot of stories will end happy ever after  
But I swear nothing quite like you and me

**Author's Note: As always, thank you for reading and please review if you wish. Until we meet again, Fireheart9**


	14. Smile

**Song: Smile by Nat King Cole**

**Summary: Five Times Sherlock Holmes Faked A Smile**

**Warnings: Vague John/Sherlock slash.**

******Spoilers: General for the series**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: Sorry this is so late, I've been mad busy with History Coursework these last few weeks. Hope you enjoy this :)**

_Smile though your heart is aching  
Smile even though it's breaking  
When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by  
If you smile through your fear and sorrow  
Smile and maybe tomorrow  
You'll see the sun come shining through for you _

Five times Sherlock Holmes Faked a Smile

1

For Sherlock Holmes' seventh Christmas his Great Aunt Muriel gave him a woolly jumper with a reindeer on it. He absolutely hated it (this was before he met the man who would show him how warm and comforting a woolly jumper could be, before he started thinking of them as a part of home). He not only hated it but found it insulting to his obviously superior intelligence; he was seven years old, far too old to be wearing a jumper with a silly, dancing (anatomically incorrect) reindeer sewn onto the front of it. He opened his mouth to tell Great Aunt Muriel exactly what he thought about her gift when he caught Mycroft's eye. He shook his head gently, warning him with his eyes to remember his promise not to spoil Christmas like he did last year (it wasn't his fault; Aunt Marie deserved to know that Uncle Simeon had given the maid an expensive necklace for Christmas). Sherlock put on a smile and muttered a few words of thanks, using the considerable charm that he possessed even then. And if his smile morphed into a grimace when Mummy forced the jumper over his head, well Great Aunt Muriel was almost blind anyway. And it was almost worth it to see the genuinely affectionate smile on his big brother's face.

2

Professor Theodore Branning was officially the dullest man Sherlock had ever met. If he hadn't been the only witness for his current case he would have abandoned this conversation half an hour ago, probably running. But Professor Branning had actually seen the murderer leaving, although he didn't know it, and so Sherlock was trapped listening to a seemingly endless lecture about the daily routine of the University, hoping against hope he would provide him with some useful information. As the Professor droned on, Sherlock's agile mind jumped through the pathways of the case like a squirrel racing through the treetops. Suddenly light exploded in Sherlock's brain and he saw everything clearly, the answer written in the sky in fireworks. He put on a smile and thanked the professor for his time, not because he was grateful but because the boredom he had exuded had already been swept away by the euphoria of the chase.

3

Sherlock swept towards the crime scene (or at least as much as one can sweep in a short leather jacket and skinny jeans). The blue of the police lights danced over his pale skin and raven hair making him look more like a vampire than usual. He was riding high, for once not on cocaine but on the thrill of the hunt, the chase, the game. And then…

"Hello Freak," with two careless words Sally Donovan cut him down, dragged his mind back to his days at boarding school (Jarred Blackheath had been the first one to call him freak, the first to make him hide behind the label high-functioning sociopath). He paused, pasted a smile on his face and turned to her. His reply was cold, aloof; he didn't care what she said, he was better than her, stronger. The perfect smile never slipped, his mask remained intact. Their words did not reach him, could not hurt him. He would not give them the satisfaction. He did not need their approval; he was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, master of the false smile.

4

John was worried about Sherlock. This wasn't exactly an unusual state of affairs; John spent at least half his time worrying about Sherlock. If it wasn't his inability to remember to eat it was his lack of sleep or his apparent magnetism for trouble of all kinds. But this was worry of a different flavour. Sherlock seemed normal (his own special brand of normality which to the rest of humanity was indescribably odd); John only noticed the difference because he knew him so well. Sherlock could read people but John could read Sherlock and he knew something was wrong; Sherlock wasn't talking, not his usual sullen silence but something more melancholy. But when he asked what was wrong Sherlock just smiled and waved him away, not his real smile but the one John called his 'if I smile then maybe the idiot will go away' smile. John didn't push the issue but the memory of that forced expression niggled in the back of his mind until he finally gave in and texted Mycroft.

**What's wrong with Sherlock? He's not talking to me. JW**

**Sherlock is often silent. It's not unusual. MH**

**This is a different sort of silence. It's like he hasn't noticed he's not talking. JW**

**I think I understand. MH**

**Well I'm glad someone does. Please enlighten me. JW**

**Today is the anniversary of our Mother's death. She died ten years ago. Sherlock was very close to her. Her death was what turned his gentle flirtation with drugs into a more serious addiction. She is the only person he ever grieved for. MH**

John read the text but didn't reply. He understood Sherlock's silence now, what he didn't know was what to do about it. It distracted him throughout the remainder of his shift at the surgery and through the journey back to Baker Street. But in the end the answer was simple. He walked into the flat and saw Sherlock lying on the sofa, staring through the ceiling.

"Tea?" he asked gently.

"Please," Sherlock's reply was almost inaudible, his voice rough with disuse. He listened as John clattered around that kitchen, feeling as if the tendrils that held his brain in place were slowly detaching one by one. Then he felt a touch on his shoulder, a hot mug was pressed into his hand, a hand brush through his hair in a reassuring touch and he put on a smile. It wasn't quite genuine but it was as close as he could get on that day, feeling as he did, and John smiled in reply but allowed him his silence and Sherlock's smile crept an inch closer to normal.

5

Sherlock stood at the side of the church, dressed even more elegantly than usual in a sharp suit and silk tie, with a black rose in his buttonhole and a top hat clenched in his hand. His eyes looked upon John, where he stood before the priest with Mary, but he did not see him. Instead he saw ghosts of their past, nights spent together in 221b, chasing criminals through dusky London streets, laughing together, scenes of friendship, the only friendship Sherlock had ever known. But those days were over now, stolen from him by love and a woman. He felt like there was a vice clamped around his heart but he didn't understand why. He hated feeling as he did, wished he knew how to make it all go away, change things so that John had never met the woman, never loved her, that things could just go back to the way they were. But the service was over now; John was no longer his to call his blogger, to follow him into danger and to pull him back out again. The time for sadness had gone; John was lost to him forever, why burden him with Sherlock's aching heart? John walked down the aisle, arm in arm with his new wife, and as he looked towards him Sherlock met his eyes and painted a smile upon his face, to cover the truth he dare not show.

_Light up your face with gladness  
Hide every trace of sadness  
Although a tear may be ever so near  
That's the time you must keep on trying  
Smile, what's the use of crying?  
You'll find that life is still worthwhile  
If you just smile_

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, please review. Until we meet again, Fireheart93**


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